


The Only Hope for Me is You Alone

by MsOzma



Series: HSWC 2014 Fills [14]
Category: Homestuck, True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:51:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsOzma/pseuds/MsOzma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirk Strider's story begins where all interesting stories begin.</p><p>At the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Hope for Me is You Alone

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHHHHHH THIS FILL TOOK ME SO LONG, BUT IT HAD TO HAPPEN.
> 
> IT.
> 
> HAD.
> 
> TO.
> 
> Homestuck/Killjoys crossover because THE COOLEST THING EVER? IT IS THIS IDEA. (Even if I'm not fully equipped to write this out as a series as I imagine it oh my God.)
> 
> Based on this prompt:
> 
> "Team dirk<3jake
> 
> Killjoystuck au? (Don't look at me omg)"

_“The future is bulletproof;  
_ _The aftermath is secondary.”  
_ _-Albert Einstein, probably_

* * *

 

It starts where all great stories start: at the very end.  
  
The world ended in almost a flash.  Governments crumbled; economies crashed; natural disasters and droughts swept the globe.  Some places—many of which had little to begin with anyway—endured and persevered.  But other places were not so lucky, and the United States was one of these many places.  People in the wreckage of their homes, lives, and dreams cried to the heavens for something— _anything_ —that could save them from themselves.  
  
That’s where Better Living Industries came in.  
  
Made from the scraps of the remaining CEOs and corporate entities, Better Living Industries offered the unity and structure the masses craved.  They created revenue and money for the now shattered United States, even forming a loose government coalition, meant more than anything to act as keepers of the peace, and not as any sort of powerful authority.  They came up with serums, pills, injections and medications to make people everything they ever wanted to be.  And above all else, the people who had survived the impossible finally had _something_  to hold on to.  Finally, it had seemed the prayers of millions had been answered.  
  
And for all of this, they asked for only one thing: their individuality and freedom.  
  
It seemed a small cost to many.  In fact, some would say they felt nothing about them had changed, save for the fact that they felt it safe to go outside again.  The apparently small cost had gone unnoticed to many, it seemed…until a small gang in the Californian wastelands gave out a clarion call to the masses to show them the total cost of what they lost.  
  
That miniscule, violent, courageous, aggressive, fabulous, dangerous group has gone down in history as the Killjoys.  


* * *

  
You were young (as comparable to others) when you heard of the Killjoys, and even younger when the world almost ended.  Before you even knew you had _anything_ , you had lost almost _everything_.  The only thing you ever knew in the world was your older brother.  
  
“Here, little dude,” he once said to you when you were just thirteen, the two of you in a refugee camp in the desert, he having placed a pair of orange aviators on your face.  “You’ll need these.  The sun’ll melt your eyes right out of your socket, like an ice cream sundae when you leave it out for too long.”  
  
You didn’t always understand the strange things he said, nor did you really even like aviators (later on, you would opt for something else).  However, what you  <i>were</i> happy for was the fact that he was _there_.  
  
In hindsight, you had wished you showed it more often.  
  
Later that day, he was shot by one of the authorities in the camp—a woman, whose name you didn’t know—when he tried to defend an older women who refused to feed the heavily modified food to her son, you think due to an allergy he had.  She was shot after your bro, and you saw what you thought might be her grandson crying.  
  
Later on you’d realize that that woman was a large stockholder in Better Living, and had even founded Betty Crocker before the world—or really, the world you were born in—essentially shut down.  At the time, it didn’t really matter to you.  
  
All you knew was that for the first time in your life, you really _did_  have nothing else.  
  
Unlike that boy with the square-rimmed glasses, you couldn’t shed a single tear.  
  


* * *

  
You learned to survive.  It was something you just had to know how to do, just like everyone else who had survived the calamity did.  After a while, you even stopped having to fight the tears that never came when your bro died, which seemed to threaten to spill out whenever you had any sort of reprieve.  
  
You learned to live with no one but your reflection in the murky sewage off the banks of California, even if you never really liked the boy staring back at you.  You got new glasses—Kamina-style ones, as cliché as they were—and continued to guard your eyes and self to anyone or thing that could or would kill you.  In the end, you made it so the only things that could ever destroy you were yourself and your thoughts.  
  
In a way, that self-destruction became the last thing you could hold onto, as fucked up a thought that may seem.  And whenever the comfort of the pills and injections Better Living Industries called to you, as if to be your friend, you told yourself they took away more than they gave.  You reasoned that no matter how fucked up your self-destruction may be, it was better to hold onto it than to give it away for false comfort.  It was insane, but it was the last real thing you had left.  
  
…Until one day, it wasn’t.  
  


* * *

  
“ _Look alive, sunshine._   One-oh-nine in the sky, but the pigs won’t quit!  You’re here with me: _Dr. Death Defying_.”  
  
Those words blasting from the static of an 80’s boombox woke you up in a Los Angeles alleyway in 2019—four years after your brother’s death.   
  
Your insomnia made it near impossible to sleep, and having to sleep on a cardboard box next to garbage and waste made it even worse.  As such, you cherished any bit of sleep you could get—any sort of reprieve from your thoughts you could manage.  This sleep had been one of your better ones—black and visionless, exactly what you desired.  So rather than feeling moved by the smooth-talking voice coming from the haze, you were fucking _pissed beyond belief_.  
  
You bolted upright immediately, ignoring the snapping of your bones and limbs as you did so, just to see the fucking asshole that dared impede on the little sleep you could afford.  Your head snapping to the source of the sound, and you saw a boy a few steps away from you, holding a large yellow boombox.  The boy was hitting and shaking the boombox as the radio personality’s voice faded in and out of static.  
  
 _“Work, you confangled thing, fucking_  work _!”_  you heard him mutter under his breath.  
  
Before he could shake it again, you lunged at him, grabbing his collar, and forcing him to look at you.  From the look in his eyes, it was obvious that he didn’t need to see what was behind your shades to know you were _furious_.  
  
“The _fuck_  do you think you’re doing here?” you demanded.  You kept your voice low and cool—uncontrolled anger is scary, but controlled anger can be _terrifying_.  
  
The boy was clearly terrified as he swallowed, your hand clenching ever tighter around his collar.  He stumbled and sputtered for a few seconds until he finally answered.  
  
“I just…needed a place to sleep, sir!”  
  
You looked to the boombox he was holding, now face down on the ground and still giving off static.  Your shaded eyes went back to him.  
  
“What’s with the fucking noisemaker, then?”  
  
His eyes quickly flit to the boombox then back to you.  “Well…I can’t very well just _go to sleep_  without knowing what the Killjoys did, can you.”  
  
You had never heard of the Killjoys before then.  And even after finally hearing about them from this strange boy in rags like yours, you didn’t feel any sort of strange stirring in your soul or some cliché bullshit like that for now knowing them.  
  
You just felt the urge to knock their teeth out.  
  
You pushed the kid back by his collar with a whimper from him in response, and then you turned back to return to your spot.  
  
“Go listen to that shit somewhere else,” you bit.  
  
As you laid back down on your cardboard mattress, you heard the kid stumblingly grab his boombox and run the fast as he could away from there…and you.  
  
You didn’t turn to watch him leave.  
  


* * *

  
You saw him again a couple days later.  He was still holding that boombox under one of his arms, and he was staring intently at café shop sign, like he couldn’t even read the damn thing.  
  
Which, of course, you just naturally assumed he couldn’t.  It wasn’t so uncommon to see people who were illiterate.  You considered just walking away and not dealing with him.  
  
But then…somehow, you knew a kid like him was just _asking_  to get mugged.  Not that muggings really bothered you—you’ve been mugged _plenty_  of times, and _have_  mugged plenty of people.  You also weren’t some goddamn vigilante trying to keep the streets safe for anyone—you were just trying to survive, like anyone else.  
  
But this kid…he just seemed so _hopeless_  to you.  You weren’t going to let some pathetic illiterate dumbass just wander around the streets without helping him _somehow_.  And anyway, you figured he would probably recognize you and just run away.  
  
So instead of letting well enough alone, you walked over to him.   
  
“Can you read?” you asked once you had gotten next to him.  
  
His head snapped up at you, flinching from the surprise of hearing your voice.  _Jesus,_  you thought, _this kid really_ is _hopeless._  
  
Then, with confusion in his green eyes (and apparently _not_  recognizing you), he stuttered out, “E-excuse me?”  
  
You sighed at having to repeat yourself, putting both hands on the back of your head as you did.  
  
“I’m just wondering why some moron is just sitting here staring at a sign like he can barely understand the first syllable,” you explained.  
  
He continued to look up at you with no understanding getting through to him, and then asked, “W-what are you going on about?”  
  
You put your face in real close, so he could understand everything you were saying.  “Can.  You.  _Read._   Question mark.”  
  
Upon that, he seemed to get defensive, and stated, “Of _course_  I can read!”  
  
“Then what’s the deal with this sign?” you demanded.  
  
He looked at the sign, then back to you, then downward.  Then he muttered something you couldn’t hear.  
  
“What did you say?” you asked.  
 _  
“I said I can’t read without glasses!”_  he snapped, and your eyes widened in dull surprise.  As if conscious of how loud he was, he looked around to see if anyone heard him.  
  
At least that explained why he probably didn’t recognize you, as well as why he’s been squinting at this café sign.  
  
When his eyes fell back to you again, he said with about as much of an authoritative tone you were sure he was able to muster, “So unless you wanna be my reading boy, I suggest you _beat it_ , asshole!”  
  
Before he could stomp away like some kid having a tantrum would, you grabbed his arm to stop him.  
  
“Wait.”  
  
He didn’t look back at you, but he also didn’t try to fight you, verbally _or_  physically.  
  
“All you need is glasses…right?”  
  
You didn’t know why you were asking him.  You didn’t even know why you cared.  
  
But when his green eyes turned to you with that hardened look on his face, you already knew what you were going to do.  
  
Letting go of his arm, you looked around at the people, until you saw a guy nearly twice your size (and probably twice your age) wearing a pair of glasses.  Upon seeing him, you walked over to him and did the only reasonable thing you thought to do.  
  
You punched him in the stomach, and took his glasses.  This caused the man to keel over in pain.  
  
 _“_ _Oh my God!”_  you heard a girl shriek.  
  
When you turned to see where the shriek had come from, you saw two police officers approaching.  _Fuck,_  you thought.  
  
Then you looked at the boy—i.e. the _complete stranger_  you just stole a pair of glasses for—and saw him looking at you in utter shock.  
  
 _“Run!”_  you yelled at him.  
  
But he didn’t.  He just looked at you like he had no idea what you were some madman—which, to be honest, you probably were.  
  
So you scowled and then ran straight toward him, snatched his hand, and dragged his sorry ass and that stupid over-sized boombox, still slung over his arm.  It took some time of running and hiding from the cops until you were both finally back at your alleyway, panting and breathless.  With your both of your backs leaning against the wall for support, you handed him the glasses.  
  
“Think…these will work?” you asked him in between breaths.  
  
Struggling to breathe himself, he grabbed the glasses without looking at you and put them on.  In your rush, you seemed to have held onto them too tight, because one lens was already cracked whereas before it wasn’t.  
  
 _Way to fucking go on_  that _, Strider,_  you scolded yourself.  
  
Of course, when he looked up at you, you saw a wide, bucktooth grin on his face.  “Good as day, ol’ chap!”  
  
Like hell it was “good as day.”  They were cracked, and there was no way in hell some random passerby on the street had the same prescription glasses that he needed.  In between the cracks and the bad fit in glasses, he probably could barely see shit, if only just marginally more than he used to be able to see.  
  
But of course…he was smiling.  And he seemed happy.  So maybe that was enough.  
  
“Oh!” he exclaimed, as is having a sudden epiphany.  Then, he extended his hand to you.  “My name’s Jake.  Jake English.  Pleased to make your acquaintance!”  
  
He had such a strange way of talking.  Did he learn how to talk from 50s movies or something?  
  
…It was endearing.  
  
You clasped his hand back, gripping it firmly.  “Dirk Strider,” you told him.  “And the pleasure’s all mine.”  
  


* * *

  
After that, you and Jake were partners—in crime, in life…well, just those two things.  Yeah.  
  
You both ended up getting along rather quickly.  You learned that Jake, for all his faults, was actually _really_  good at playing up the scared, helpless child tactic to get money.  You also learned quickly that in any sort of “kerfuffle” as he called it, he was a fucking _surgeon_  with a pistol—even better than you were with your shitty katana blade you stole from a comic book shop.  (Even if he acted like a total dork about guns in general.)  Not that it got to that point often, but it was good to know that if shit went down, you two would be able to have each other’s backs.  
  
You also learned that you and Jake had a lot in common.  When he was a kid, he lost his guardian—much like you had lost yours—and had since been taking care of himself.  Despite him seeming so hopeless, he actually knew how to take care of himself pretty well, all things considered.  Not like your tactics were any better than his—you were just more aggressive and forceful, whereas he was more reserved and quiet.  You pushed and fought to survive; he stayed quiet and tried not to get in the way, only using force when his life depended on it.  
  
Knowing him, you also learned more about the Killjoys.  Apparently, he idolized them.  
  
“C’mon, Dirk!” he would say late at night as he fiddled with his boombox.  “Listen with me this time!”  
  
And of course, you’d shake your head and say, “They’re just a bunch of fucking dudes with guns.  Why should I care about them?”  
  
And that’s all they really were, when it came down to it.  They were just people who were just as upset about the way things were as was anyone else who saw and understood the bad side of Better Living Industries.  The only difference was they were a gang, and they were stupid enough to think they actually _could_  change anything.  
  
But Jake would always protest and argue.  “You just don’t _see_ , Dirk!  They’re fighting for a good cause!  They give people _hope_  that things can change!”  
  
“And what does hope do?” you would ask him.  “It makes people think things will change when they can’t.  Honestly, Jake, can you tell me that they have _any_  chance in hell of winning this war?”  
  
This is where Jake would always show you how introspective he actually was.  “Well, of _course_  not!  But…maybe if people have hope that things are able to change, they’ll actually _do_  something about it!”  
  
And to that, you wouldn’t have anything to say.  Partially because you wanted to believe it was possible—that even if/when these Killjoys fell, it would inspire others to join their cause.  
  
It was also partially because you knew this wasn’t a V for Vendetta comic book, and the world simply didn’t work like that.  A rebellion doesn’t start just from four guys and some little girl alone.  
  
Somehow, though, you never _really_  minded that Jake would listen for hours on end to that “Dr. Death Defying” guy’s voice, listening to news and reports on the Killjoys through the static of his boombox, even if it kept you up.  You also didn’t mind him going on and on about how much he absolutely admired Party Poison’s leadership, or how he wished he could meet Fun Ghoul in person, or how the girl in their group was a symbol of perseverance for the gang and for everyone else out there.  
  
Because when he got to talking about those things—things he _truly_  believed in—it was…  
  
… _Beautiful._  
  
And it was when you finally realized that beauty in him that you also finally realized you had fallen in love with him.  
  
Of course, you never wanted to tell him.  You were sure he didn’t even consider such feelings for you.  And even though a powerful urge made you want to force him to be drawn to you in some way—to manipulate him into that—you were mature enough to understand then that it would have to be his decision.  
  
And you knew it was a decision he would never make.  
  
So you decided to keep it to yourself.  Just add it to another one of the many thoughts to keep you awake at night.  
  


* * *

  
One day, you woke up from a sleep—an actual, peaceful _sleep_ —energized and ready for the day.  It was Jake’s birthday, and you had _every_  reason to be excited, because what he didn’t know was that for a few weeks you had been saving up your begging/mugging rewards to buy him an absolute _rarity_  for people as low as you— _cake_.  
  
You were gonna buy his favorite kind—mint ice cream cake (which was a little bitter for you, but who cares, it was _his_  birthday).  You knew it was his favorite because every time you and he had to go by the bakery, he would always look at the cakes and say absent-mindedly, “I wonder if they have any cakes with mint…or _ice cream_ …”  And he would do this little shiver of excitement and longing for food that was just…so  _sad_.  
  
So naturally you just assumed his favorite was mint ice cream cake.  He liked mint.  He liked ice cream.  What do you get when you put them together?  _BAM_ , mint ice cream cake.  It was a great idea.  You were so excited, you even thought you might tell Jake how you felt that night.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  
  
Luckily for you, Jake was still asleep and snoring _loudly_.  So you snuck off, carving a note on cardboard with your sword that you would be back and not to worry.  You also grabbed one of his pistols, because while you loved your katana, even _you_  knew it was stupid to put up a fight against someone with a gun when you had some cheesy weeaboo blade.  You knew/assumed Jake would understand this.  
  
So you got to the bakery (very obviously owned by Better Living Industries, but basically everything else was too, so who were you to complain), and asked the girl in baby blue behind the counter if it were possible to make a mint ice cream cake.  She said of course they could, and that it would be done in a few hours.  You paid a small deposit, as an agreement to pay the rest when it was done.  
  
You wish you could say you were cool about it and just sort of wandered around, begged some money, picked a few wallets, but you didn’t.  You were a fucking anxious mess and stayed there because for some reason you thought if you weren’t there exactly when it was done, they would just throw it away.  So you literally sat near the building and waited ‘till that nice girl came out and said it was done (of course not without teasing you in a light-hearted way that even _you_  didn’t get defensive about).  The cake was perfect, and even as an added bonus (meaning  _free_ ), she designed Fun Ghoul—Jake’s favorite of the Killjoys—on the top.  It was something you had said in _very_  casual conversation to her—sort of like, “You know what he’d like?  Fun Ghoul on the top.”—mainly to try to see if you could startle her.  But to your shock, she did something you were _sure_  she would never do, since this place was basically owned by BLI.  Girl had fucking guts.  
  
It was all boxed up and you had your money out ready to pay, when she told you just how much it cost.  
  
“270 BLI credits.”  
  
What?  _What?_   You only had 250.  You asked her why it was that much, and also told her that just a couple weeks ago you went to this bakery and talked to some girl in pink, and _she_  said it would only be 250 _plus_  and 20 credit deposit.  The girl shook her head.  
  
“That was the price two weeks ago.  Unfortunately, we had to boost our prices, especially considering how hard it is to get flavored ice cream anymore.”  
  
You stood there for a second, trying to keep yourself from shaking.  From rage?  Potential tears?  Fear?  You weren’t sure.  All you were sure of is what you were going to do next.  
  
You pulled out your gun.  
  
“This is a stick-up,” you said with no emotion to your voice.  
  
Everyone in the place shrieked.  You saw a kid who was with his mother (probably getting his _own_  birthday cake) pee his pants, and the girl behind the counter raised her hands slowly.  
  
You didn’t want to hurt her.  But you were desperate.  
  
“Let me go with this cake and the money in the drawer,” you told her calmly, “and nothing bad will happen to you.”  
  
She nodded, and very slowly grabbed the money from her drawer and handed it all to you.  With the money and cake, you backed out of there slowly, and then ran away when you were securely out.  
  
You heard sirens all over town, and saw cops everywhere.  At first, you thought they might not even be looking for you, until one policewoman caught a glimpse of your face and tried to tackle you.  You ran all over town, trying to break their trail.  You ran everywhere but the alley, because you knew if they found the alley, you’d put both you _and_  Jake in danger.  On his _birthday_  of all things.  
  
When you finally had broken the cops off your trail, it was late in the afternoon, and the cake was all but melted.  
  
You scolded yourself for thinking you were capable of doing something special for Jake.  
  


* * *

  
When you got back, it was dark, cold, and the cake you were carrying was melted to the point of making the box soggy.  To add to the last of things that were wrong when you got back, you found Jake balling his eyes out.  
  
Almost dropping the box, you immediately ran to him and kneeled before him.  You set the box aside, and then put a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Hey,” you said softly—so much softer than you think you ever spoke before.  “Man…what’s up?”  
  
In between sniffles and snot, he choked out, “They’re _dead_.”  
  
He didn’t need to specify who.  There was only a few people in the world you knew Jake might feel upset about dying—you hoped you could count yourself on that list, and of course the Killjoys.  
  
You never believed in them the way he did.  But somehow, you felt your heart sink at the news.  
  
“Which one of ‘em died?” you asked.  
  
 _“ALL OF THEM!”_ he screamed, before sobbing in full force.  
  
For the next few minutes, you did everything you could to console Jake—and maybe somehow yourself.  You gave him one of your beat-up tank tops to blow snot in, you let him mutter and talk without interrupting…you even let him put his head on your shoulder, something so intimate it made you uncomfortable.  
  
When he seemed to have calmed down, you finally asked the question: “When did it happen?”  
  
After all, the two of you had only been getting a radio station that was playing previous messages from weeks before.  If he got the news today on December 1 st, odds are it was a few weeks ago from today that it even happened.  
  
Your logic proved true.  “November 18th,” he mumbled, wiping his face with the shirt you gave him.  “19th, for the Kobra Kid.  Only the girl lived.”  
  
In the back of your mind, you thought that was probably the reason the girl in blue had no qualms about designing Fun Ghoul on Jake’s cake.  He was dead now, and therefore no longer a threat to Better Living Industries.  
  
Oh.  His cake.  
  
“I know it doesn’t mean much,” you began, taking the cake and setting it on your lap, “especially considering what happened today.  But…”  
  
Opening the lid, and it looked worse than before.  You couldn’t even tell Fun Ghoul had been put on.  
  
You were inwardly cursing yourself when Jake snatched the cake out of your hand.  
  
“Cake!?” he exclaimed, his voice still cracking from the tears that he was spilling.  “You got me _cake_!?”  
  
“Uh…yeah.  Happy birthday, man.”  
  
That was when he did something you completely did not expect.  
  
He _hugged_  you.  
  
“Thank you,” he said into your shoulder.  “You’re the best pal a guy could ask for.”  
  
You hesitantly put your arms around him.  This was something you had wanted to do with him for a while—maybe not in this way, but…still.  And it was frightening to you to be doing it then.  But once you finally let go, you let yourself become lost in the fact that Jake was hugging you and you were hugging him, and he was actually _happy_  because of something _you_  did, and didn’t consider that he probably tipped the cake over—  
  
“Dirk?”  
  
His voice whispered to you, and broke you from your delirious, happy, _safe_  haven you had just found.  
  
“Yeah, Jake?”  
  
“Could you, uh…not hug so tight?”  
  
 _Oh fuck,_  you thought.  _Goddammit, Dirk, you ruin everything._  
  
You immediately broke the embrace, apologies spilling from your mouth.  “I’m sorry, Jake, so fucking sorry, I won’t hug you like that again, okay, and I’m sorry the cake is melted too, you deserved an unmelted cake today, and I’m also sorry the Killjoys died, and—“  
  
His lips on yours stopped you.  You didn’t even register the kiss was happening.  You didn’t even register it after it happened.  Because there was absolutely _no way_  Jake English could have kissed you, right?  
  
… _Right?_  
  
But there he was, flushed, and looking sheepishly away, and muttering apologies you couldn’t even hear, and just.  
  
It _happened_.  And you were so happy you actually _smiled_.  
  
 _“There he is.”_  
  
A voice down the alley broke the small reprieve from sorrow you and Jake shared together.  When you looked down, you saw a policewoman—the same one who tackled you earlier that day.  
  
“Four-thirteen, Chief Peixes,” the female rasped onto her walkie-talkie.  “Chief Peixes, we have found accused suspect, yellow hair, pointed black glasses, suspected for robbing a cake shop today, over.”  
  
Jake gave you a look of fear.  Your eyes hardened, and you looked back to the cop.  
  
“Sir,” she called out, walking toward you.  “If you could please step forward and—“  
  
Jake shot her shoulder before she took another step, and before you even got your gun out.  She fell to the ground.  She howled in pain as she fell to the ground.  You were surprised to feel Jake dragging you up to your feet.  
  
 _“Run!”_  he commanded.  
  
Once you got on steady footing, you and he both ran toward the other end of the alleyway.  You both halted to a when police lights and sirens blocked your way.  You turned and were about to head the other direction but saw more police vehicles blocking that way.  
  
You cursed yourself—cursed yourself for _everything_.  It was  <i>your</i> fault you two were in this mess.  Even from the beginning it was probably your fault.  When you just had to stop to talk to Jake, when you decided you two would be partners together, when you decided instead of accepting the fact that you couldn’t afford the cake that you would try actually robbing the store, and now—  
  
“Dirk.”  
  
Jake shook you out of yourself, forcing you to look at him.  He continued to whisper to you.  
  
“There’s an opening in the corner.  Right after that cop car there.”  
  
He motioned with his eyes where it was, and you definitely saw it.  A large gap where one of the cop cars stopped.  It was enough that a person could get through, if they had the right…  
  
…The right distraction.  
  
“Go, Jake,” you said.  “I’ll hold them back.”  
  
You had expected that after you said that, Jake would protest.  He would say, “No, _I’ll_  hold them back,” and then you two would argue and argue until what was clearly going to happen here would happen.  You die, he lives.  That’s the only way you could see…no, _allow_  this scene to play out.  
  
But when you looked at him…he just smiled.  And then grabbed your shoulder.  
  
“See you on the other side, ol’ pal,” he said.  
  
Then he pushed you, and opened fire on the cops.  
  
You had no chance to react.  You couldn’t even scream.  As you watched in horror Jake get shot down, all you could do was tumble backwards then forwards to the opening and take your only escape away from the cops.  
  
And for the first time in years, you were crying.  
  


* * *

  
Your name is Dirk Strider.  
  
And you have officially lost everything.  
  
…All except you and your thoughts.  
  


* * *

  
_“You're the broken glass in the morning light,  
Be a burning star if it takes all night,  
So just save yourself and I'll hold them back tonight.”_   
_-Paris Hilton_


End file.
